


The New Age

by AustinB



Series: Stucky Wonderland [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sharing a Bed, like everything i write lbr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustinB/pseuds/AustinB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re good at the future,” Steve says, a little downcast. </p><p>Bucky doesn’t notice. He grins, “I always thought I would be.”</p><p> </p><p>(AU: Bucky and Steve were both on the plane when Steve put it in the Arctic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freesimorgh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freesimorgh/gifts).



> hey freesimorgh remember when you requested: Bucky and Steve are both on the plane when Steve put it in ice and they both freeze and wake up together and are two men out of time together? 
> 
> Here's what happened

Steve opens his eyes. He blinks. The room is warm and dry, and there’s a ceiling fan turning slowly above him. His body feels…tight. Like he needs to stretch but doesn’t remember how. With some effort, he turns his head to find Bucky lying prone in a bed on the other side of the small room. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with khaki pants. Steve looks down to find the same clothes on himself; clothes he doesn’t remember owning.

As Bucky starts to stir, Steve sits up and swings his legs off the bed. The radio is playing a baseball game but it’s…this is not right.

Bucky sits up and looks at him, “Where are we?”

“Was about to ask you the same thing.”

Red Skull; the plane. He and Bucky had decided to put it down in the water, how did they— how? Steve watches the same thoughts race through Bucky’s mind and across his features.

A beautiful redheaded woman comes in, and before she can even speak, Steve throws a look at Bucky. He’s looking at her hair and clothes with a frown, then he glances at Steve and shakes his head minutely.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” she greets them, and attempts an explanation. But it’s clear she’s not prepared to handle questions.

When Steve raises his voice, two black-clad guards enter the room. And when Steve throws one against the wall, he crashes right through it. Steve leaps out the hole in the wall, Bucky hot on his heels.

It’s all fake; the double doors in the big empty room lead out into a hallway of some business building.

“Come on,” Bucky shouts when Steve hesitates, noticing the off-ness of the décor and the people’s clothes. Following behind Bucky, they find a door leading to the street. Steve wants to stop and collapse when he sees the cars, the people, but he makes himself run a half a block to keep up with Bucky; the last goddamn thing he needs right now is to lose him in the rush of people.

Bucky finally slows and stops, so Steve stops beside him, eyes drawn up, up, up. Screens flashing images, bigger than even the biggest trucks rolling by in the constant rush of wheels and people.

Five black cars suddenly surround them, and a man in a black coat and eye patch steps out.

“At ease, soldiers.”

Bucky’s back is almost pressed up to Steve’s, watching the threats at his six, but when the man addresses them, Bucky turns to face him too.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me, I’ll explain everything.”

Steve glances at Bucky, who raises his eyebrows. Not much choice, is there?

They climb in the back seat of the nicest car Steve’s ever seen and the man—Director Nick Fury—breaks the news.

Seventy years. They won the war, it’s over. Everyone Steve and Bucky ever knew are either dead or in their 90s. They listen quietly to this explanation. Steve feels lightheaded.

They’re escorted inside a different building; there’s a logo up at the top, hundreds of floors up, but from directly underneath it Steve can’t tell what it is.

The three of them ride an elevator for what feels like an eternity; Steve watches red numbers tick up evenly and wonders at it.

“Welcome to Stark Tower. You’ll be safe here while you get your bearings.”

“Stark?” Bucky asks, “Howard’s…?”

“Son,” Fury finishes. Bucky blows out a breath. “Tony Stark has agreed to give you two floors for your own personal use.”

“Why?” Steve asks.

“He does some work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and, after some time to think and discuss, we’re hopeful you might like to as well. Take your time to adjust; I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon to answer any questions. In the meantime, Jarvis will assist you.”

As they step out into an apartment, a pleasant British voice says, “Hello Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” making both Steve and Bucky twitch.

“Stark’s artificial intelligence is wired throughout the building; anything you need, just ask. Welcome to the 21st century, gentlemen,” Fury says, and leaves.

“The ninetieth floor, which you are currently on, has been designated by Sir for Captain Rogers’ use. Sergeant Barnes, the 91stfloor is yours to use as you like.”

Steve and Bucky float through the apartment, which is bigger than their last apartment six times over. There are three bathrooms. The kitchen is enormous, with shiny metal appliances. A stove with a glass top. Something that looks like a coffee maker but might also be a rocket launcher.

Bucky comes back from the bedroom looking awed. “Is this real?”

“Far as I can tell.”

The refrigerator is stocked with food, and Steve is ravenous. Most of the food is pretty intuitive; they had sandwiches in the ‘30s, too. They demolish an entire loaf of bread, the meat drawer and the contents of the fruit bowl.

They take the elevator up to the 91st floor; Bucky’s suite. It’s exactly the same. Bucky yelps from the bathroom and Steve rushes in to find the water running in the shower and Bucky stripping his shirt off.

“Look at this,” he says, pointing to the showerhead. He twists it and the spray pattern changes. Bucky laughs, and unzips his pants.

“I’m going back downstairs,” Steve says.

“Ok, I’ll come down when I’m done,” Bucky says. Steve turns away just as Bucky shucks the rest of his clothes. He groans when he steps under the spray and Steve closes the door behind him.

Steve takes the elevator back to his floor. There are clothes in the bureau, denim pants and stretchy shirts in his size. He puts some of them on. The windows are large, looking over the cityscape and he stands there for an undetermined length of time, watching life crawl by below him.

He hears the elevator ping and turns to see Bucky found some clothes of his own, denim pants like Steve’s and a grey T-shirt. His hair is dry and styled again.

“I’d have been down sooner, but I had a 10 minute conversation with Disembodied British Voice in the elevator.”

“His name is Jarvis.”

“I know his name, Steve,” Bucky says with a wry grin, “He’s the first fucking robot I’ve ever met. _Is this real?_ ” he asks again with an open, disbelieving smile, gesturing around him. He’s happy. He’s excited. Steve kind of wants to crawl under a rock.

“I guess so,” Steve says.

They investigate every contraption and murmur about the amazing world they’ve found themselves in for the next hour. Then the elevator pings and a dark-haired man strides off.

“Capsicle! Bucky Bear! Welcome!”

Tony Stark. Steve shakes his hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tony. I knew your—“

“Father, yeah, I know.” He’s Howard and a half in all directions; excitable, smart, but with a bitter edge his father never had.

“You may want to take it easy on the Internet at first,” he advises, then spends ten minutes explaining what, exactly, that is. “You need anything, Jarvis’s got you covered, and he’s got my direct line so I’m just a shout away.”

He breezes out as quickly as he breezed in.

When the sun sets, Steve and Bucky take bags of granola and candy from the cupboards and push the couch over to the window. They sit close together by wordless agreement, craving contact. For Steve, a lifeline.

Steve’s head has rolled back onto the couch and his eyes are drifting closed when Bucky taps his thigh.

“Bed,” he says. Steve nods.

But then Bucky heads for the elevator.

“Where you going?” Steve asks, before he can think better of it. Bucky doesn’t answer, just changes directions and follows Steve to his bedroom. Steve shucks his denim pants and shirt and pulls on the soft-looking pants he’d found in a drawer, and tosses another pair at Bucky.

They crawl in on opposite sides of a bed bigger than their first apartment and fall asleep instantly.

* * *

When Steve opens his eyes, it takes him a second to orient himself. It all feels like a fever dream; he’s actually sick and Bucky’s out working so he can bring him an orange after his shift at the docks.

But it’s the 21st century. And Bucky’s not in bed with him anymore. Steve finds him in the living room, still shirtless and wearing Steve’s pajama pants, pressing buttons on a black square panel with screen. Images are flashing on the large, flat television screen mounted on the wall.

“It’s—I mean, there’s—it’s just—“

Bucky gives up trying to articulate it and Steve goes into the kitchen, simply for the familiarity of routine. He presses a few buttons on the thing that looks like the coffeemaker, and the voice from the ceiling makes both he and Bucky jump again.

“Good morning, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, is there anything I can assist you with?”

“Uh, can you make me a cup of coffee?”

“Certainly.”

Bucky drifts over and Jarvis gives them a tutorial as he remotely presses buttons on their coffeemaker.

“Is there anything else, Captain?”

“No, Jarvis. Thank you. And call me Steve.”

“Of course, Steve.”

Steve makes use of his shower—in and out quickly, no matter how rich Tony Stark seems to be Steve isn’t gonna waste his hot water— and dresses in more borrowed clothes. He still can’t really think of them as his.

He and Bucky stand shoulder to shoulder at the window again, eating bowls of sugary cereal.

“I’ve never seen so much food in one place before,” Bucky says. He’s got a perpetual half smile floating on his lips as he takes it all in. There’s a whole vast new world out their window, lights and cars, women in mini everything, and Steve turns to watch Bucky’s smile.

Director Fury visits them on Steve’s floor that afternoon, as promised, with a different red-headed woman in tow. He introduces her as Natasha Romanov. Together, they give Bucky and Steve the full history of S.H.I.E.L.D. Peggy Carter, the founder, is still alive. Bucky’s head whips around to watch Steve’s reaction to that. He swallows hard and asks where she is.

Ms. Romanov hands each of them a rectangle with a screen. “These are loaded with any contact numbers you might need, all S.H.I.E.L.D. employees who will be able to answer any questions or assist you with anything.”

“Is your contact number in there?” Bucky asks, smooth as anything.

Natasha lifts one eyebrow. “Yes. Call me anytime, Sergeant Barnes,” but something about the way she says it deflates some of Bucky’s bravado.

After they leave, Bucky goes up to his own floor to talk to ‘Elevator Man.’

“His name is Jarvis.”

“I know,” Bucky calls as the elevator doors close.

It’s too quiet when he’s alone, so Steve asks Jarvis to play him some music.

“What would you like to hear?”

“Whatever people listen to these days.”

Steve can take it for all of five minutes. “Some jazz, please, Jarvis.”

He watches out his window for a while, and thinks about going up to find Bucky, but lays down in bed instead.

The sun has set when Steve hears the elevator ping. Bucky pads into the bedroom and slips under the covers with him.

“Sorry,” he whispers, but Steve can’t tell if he’s sorry for being gone all day, for getting in bed with him or for waking him up. “I was looking at some things on the Internet.”

“You know what Tony said.”

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, and it rustles the hair on the back of Steve’s head. “He was right.”

Bucky snakes his arm around Steve, like he did when they were young and Steve clutches Bucky’s arm close to his chest, shuffling back a little to press up against Bucky’s chest.

* * *

Natasha shows up the next afternoon. “Care to take a field trip?”

Steve’s chest feels tight at the thought of leaving what he’s come to think of as a safe haven, but Bucky grins, “I’d go anywhere with you.”

They go to a café just down the street and sit at a table next to the sidewalk. Steve is too busy looking at the people going by to look at the menu, so after Bucky orders and the waitress looks at him expectantly he says, “Uh, same.”

There’s not much talk at the table, Natasha apparently eyeing for threats and Steve and Bucky watching everything else. But Bucky does try to flirt with her some, with little success.

Steve takes the pen from the tray in the middle of the table and draws on his napkin There’s a mother and her young child sitting at the next table. Her hair is short, and her bare arms are covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist. The ink, the color, the shapes, it’s beautiful.

After lunch, which was probably good but Steve was too busy rubbernecking to really even taste it, Natasha leaves them on the sidewalk in front of Stark Tower.

“Give me a call sometime, gents,” she says, and disappears into the flow of people. They decide to walk some more, and take a big loop up and around for two hours, murmuring between themselves, pointing something out here or there.

When they stop at a little park, there are two men sitting on a bench nearby. One has his arm around the other, and as Steve watches, they lean together and kiss. Steve glances at Bucky, who’s watching as well, but he has to look away quickly. They’re quiet on the walk back.

“Everyone has dogs,” Bucky remarks.

“Everyone can afford to feed their dogs.”

“That woman with the tattoos at lunch, that was pretty amazing.”

And they’re off again, marveling over the shiny newness, the ridiculous extravagant opulence of everything.

They eat standing at the kitchen counter and Bucky turns the television on. Steve leans over his shoulder to watch him tap icons on the remote control screen. He finds an animated movie about toys that is both well-written and amazingly drawn. Steve leans forward on the couch, gaping.

When the movie ends, another one comes on, this one about a family of superheroes. Ten minutes into it, Bucky stands up and goes to the bedroom. He hears water running in the en suite bathroom. After a moment, Steve turns the television off and follows. Bucky’s in his bed already, his back to the door, curled up facing Steve’s side of the bed.

Steve brushes his teeth and climbs in, scooting close enough that Bucky can touch him if he wants. After a moment, he does, his arm snaking around Steve’s stomach, shuffling in close to press himself up against Steve’s back.

They’ve been sleeping together almost all their lives. In Brooklyn, they had separate beds for a while, but one winter when Steve was sick, they pushed them together, and never pulled them back apart. Then when Steve went to the Front, they curled up in foxholes and hideouts during missions with the Howlies. For warmth, of course, it was cold at night. And now. Bucky is the only thing Steve has. Maybe not vice versa, but there’s comfort here, familiarity. If, when Steve closes his eyes, he thinks of those men at the park, and wishes for the press of Bucky’s lips against the back of his neck, he tries not to dwell on it. There are more important things to think about. 

* * *

Steve is squinting at a box on the wall the next afternoon when Bucky comes up behind him.

“What’re you trying to do?”

“Tony said you could dial down the windows, which I’m guessing means like some sort of shade but…”

Bucky steps up beside him and taps the screen, going back a few steps when he’s hit a dead end, but within two minutes, he has it figured out. The top half of the windows go grey, throwing shade on the couch where Steve had been sitting.

“You’re good at the future,” Steve says, a little downcast. Bucky doesn’t notice.

He grins, “I always thought I would be.”

Bucky’s on Steve’s floor more often than not, leaving to shower and change, or grab something from his fridge that Steve’s has run out of. He flops on Steve’s couch and taps at his phone, calling out facts about architecture, population, and all the history they missed.

They’ve been ordering food in once they figured out they could; Indian, Chinese, Thai, Mexican, Greek, you can get anything you want here. But the protective bubble was too good, and Bucky too _Bucky,_ to last.

“Let’s go out,” Bucky says to him one afternoon. It still gives Steve the ghost of a palpitation, but Bucky’s excited, so they go. They walk through the city, take the subway. Manhattan is insane and Brooklyn is too, but it’s a familiar kind of insane. Kids don’t play baseball in the streets anymore, though. There are no clotheslines strung between buildings.

Everywhere he looks, it seems, men are holding hands. Women, too. There’s no shame in it, no taboo. It should fill him with joy; he can be free. But instead there’s a melancholy settling in his heart.

By the time they get back to the Tower, the sun has set.

“I’m gonna go up to my place,” Bucky says, and Steve feels a very real pang of anxiety at that.

“Sure. Goodnight,” he says.

Steve brushes his teeth and slides into bed. He could starfish out in the middle; it’s his bed and he’s alone in it, but he curls up on his own side, facing the wall, hopeful.

Steve wakes up in the middle of the night to a weight dipping on the other side of his bed. Bucky’s arm comes around him and he sighs, drifting peacefully back to sleep.

But he’s gone by the time Steve wakes up, like he thinks he’s not supposed to be there. Steve wants to ask him about it, tell him to stay, _please, stay_ , but can’t even begin to think of how.

* * *

“What do you think about S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Bucky asks over breakfast. He’d slipped out of bed with the dawn again, and come down a few hours later, acting as if he hadn’t slept there the night before.

“I think it’s solid. Director Fury and Agent Romanov, I like them. Trust them? Maybe not yet. But I think we should give them a chance.”

Bucky nods, then says to his bacon and eggs, “Gonna go see Carter?”

Steve nods at his own bacon and eggs, “Yeah. Yeah I think I will.”

He calls Tony, with the help of Jarvis, and has transportation arranged for him. It’s heartrending to see her again, but restorative too. Even if she can't remember all the details, she, at least, knows Steve completely. With her, at least, he never has to hide.

* * *

Steve goes up to his floor to find Bucky pulling a jacket on, a leather one with zippers—was that in his closet or did he buy it himself?

“I was just coming to get you," Bucky says, "Natasha invited us out for dinner.”

Before he can think better of it, Steve blurts, “Are you sure she didn’t just invite you?”

Steve half expects him to tease, “Jealous?” and the very fact that he doesn’t proves something, but Steve’s not sure what.

“No, she invited you,” Bucky says placidly. Then, with what appears to be some amount of effort, smiles and says cheerfully, “She said, and I quote, “Tell Rogers to bring his star-spangled ass, too.’”

So Steve changes into a black long-sleeved shirt and they sit at a restaurant that’s so loud and the lights so low it’s a wonder anyone can see and hear anything without a super-soldier serum.

There’s a handsome brunette man at the bar who keeps looking over at their table, but not at Steve. When the man catches Bucky’s eye, he smiles, and Bucky smiles right back at him, that smile from 1939, crooked and charming. Is he being polite? Or is he interested? If he's interested in men, might he be interested in Steve?

Bucky glances over at Steve and catches him watching. Bucky just shrugs diffidently, smiling, and sips his drink.

Natasha has brought a beautiful dark-haired friend named Darcy with her. She’s witty and crass and Bucky chatters back and forth with her loudly.

He and Natasha have a quieter aside conversation. She’s perceptive, intuitive. Steve’s caught himself thinking of her as a friend, but that’s probably just because that’s what she wants him to think. So he keeps his responses short and distantly polite. Surprisingly, it makes Natasha smile at him.

That night, when they receive their cheek kisses and say goodnight to the ladies and ride up in the elevator in silence, Bucky doesn’t stop to get off at Steve’s floor, just says, “Goodnight,” when Steve gets off, and punches the button for his floor. Steve makes himself say “Goodnight” and turn away, because watching the elevator doors close on Bucky is a little too pathetic, even for him.

Bucky doesn’t come down to sleep with him at any point during the night. Steve wakes up four times, alone each time, and finally as the dawn rises, gives up on sleep and gets up to make coffee.

* * *

He’s ordered charcoal and a sketch pad through Jarvis, and it helps him feel a little more connected, a little more like himself. They were delivered that afternoon, and he’s sketched four pages of various city scenes, but he wants a more interesting subject. Bucky always liked sitting for him; made him feel important. So, with the supplies in his hands, he takes the elevator up.

“Hey, Bucky,” he calls to the apartment at large.

“In here,” Bucky’s muffled voice calls from somewhere at the back. Steve finds him in the master en-suite bathroom, styling his hair in the mirror. He’s wearing black pants, almost as tight as Steve’s old USO costume, a tattered T-shirt and that leather jacket.

Bucky glances at him furtively and explains, “I’m going out for drinks with Darcy.”

“Oh,” Steve says, overcome with the feeling of being left behind. Left behind by his friends, the world, time, and now Bucky. He always expected it, but it still hurts. Bucky is so good at adapting; these things come easy to him, the technology, the ceaseless barrage of information, constantly _learning_ even as he sits in the apartment next to Steve, who is overwhelmed simply by being.

“Do you wanna come?” Bucky tacks on, but Steve shakes his head. Bucky’s eyes flick down to the art supplies in his hand. “You drawin’ again?”

Steve nods.

“You’ll—I can—“ Bucky gives up whatever he was trying to say with a shake of his head and a regretful smile. “I gotta run.”

“Have fun,” Steve says, stepping aside to let Bucky by. Once he’s gone, Steve goes back up to his own place, sets the sketchbook on the counter and goes to bed.

* * *

Steve dreams in sepia. He dreams he’s back in the 30s, but something’s always off, not quite right. Women are walking around in miniskirts with tattoos or men in sunglasses are driving convertibles on the hectic New York streets. He dreams of broken noses in back alleys, blood on brick and concrete, the sting of antiseptic, the gentle press of calloused hands. The hot stifling summers, lying around in undershirts complaining, making the best of things, making due. Getting by. Simple.

He dreams an old dream. He and Bucky are in their tiny apartment in Brooklyn, sitting at the kitchen table. Bucky's patching up a cut on his face and when he puts his hands on Steve's face, Steve holds them there with his own like he’d always wanted to. Turns his face into Bucky’s palm and presses his lips there, like he’d always wanted. But instead of leaning down to kiss him like Bucky usually does in the dream, he dissolves; simply disappears. And then Steve is alone.

* * *

When Steve wakes up in the morning, Bucky’s arm is wrapped around him. He’s already awake, Steve can tell by the beating of his heart, the cadence of his breath. Steve can still smell the hot summer air of Brooklyn, and if he tunes out the sleek modern design of the bedside table, he can pretend it's still 1935.

“I had the strangest dream,” Steve says, before he’s fully awake. Even as he speaks, the details slip away from him, like water trickling through his fingers as he tries to grasp it, define its edges. He realizes he's broken their new unspoken rule of not acknowledging each other in bed, and he holds his breath until Bucky speaks.

“Yeah? What did you dream Stevie?” Bucky murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep, and the late night he probably had with Darcy. But there’s no alcohol on his breath.

“I dreamt we slept for 70 years in the ice and when we woke up it was the future.”

Bucky chuffs a soft laugh, tickling the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck. “And what was the future like?”

The dream is gone now, but that’s not what they’re talking about anymore, anyway.

“It was…incredible. Terrifying. Overwhelming. You loved it.” He pauses for a fortifying breath. “But my favorite part was that no one had to hide who they loved. That was always hard on me.”

Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then whispers against Steve’s neck, “Me too.”

Steve turns under Bucky’s arm to face him. It’s a moment like the Cyclone, stomach swooping; like a waterfall, deafening roar, sharp drop, but it’s peaceful too, because Bucky is looking at him like he knows what’s in his heart already. There’s a little bit of fear in the tilt of his eyebrows, but when Steve’s eyes jump to his lips and back up, the fear is suddenly gone.

Bucky leans in to kiss him, like in a dream. Just a soft press of lips and Steve’s eyes flutter closed. Bucky presses against him harder, shifting closer so he can get his hands on Steve’s body. When his hand slides around Steve’s hip to his ass, Bucky licks into his mouth and Steve’s soul transcends its earthly vessel. He touches Bucky’s face, lifts a knee and wraps his leg around Bucky’s, slotting their hips together so he can feel the hard line of his cock against his own.

He tastes amazing, he feels divine; Steve has never been more at home. They tip their heads down to rest their foreheads together, still clutching at each other tightly, desperately.

“I like the future,” Bucky whispers, the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah,” Steve says, inching closer to get those lips again, “Me too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a bucky pov chapter bc i am weak and bucky needs to explain himself

When Steve asks him to stay the first night, Bucky doesn’t think anything of it. They’ve shared a bed more often than not during their adult lives, and especially now, with everything thrown ass over teakettle, Bucky needs something solid to hold onto, too. Preferably something solid with golden hair and blue eyes.

Bucky likes the future. It’s even better than the world Howard Stark painted for them, because it’s _real_ , and they're _in it_. Everything is so easy; convenient. Phones you can carry in your pocket, connect you to anyone in the world with the push of a button. Any kind of food you want delivered to your door while you sit in your pajamas on your couch. For a boy who’s worked since he was 12 to provide for those he loves, a little convenience feels like a golden ticket.

Except.

Steve hates the future. He looks at the new world, their new life, with suspicion. Bucky’s tried to show him how easy, how exciting it can be, but something is holding him back. Bucky thought it was Carter, thought that going to see her would help drive it home that this is their life now. 

But he’s digging his heels in; unbending. He never does that, except with bullies and injustice. But this isn’t injustice, it’s a gift. Bucky doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to feel guilty for being glad to be alive, for marveling over the future he’d dreamed of and never thought he’d get to see. 

Bucky curls around Steve’s back at night, feeling like he’s slipping away, even though he’s right under his hands, as solid as two weeks ago when they were huddled in the woods in France. But now everything’s changed.

When he realizes that men can be together now, that he won’t get thrown in jail or killed for the way he is, a dangerous kind of hope blooms in his chest. He knows Steve sees the two men kissing in the park, but when Bucky chances a glance at his friend’s face, he’s already turned away. Disgusted? Offended? Maybe he has no opinion one way or another.

Bucky has his own floor; for the first time, he wonders if maybe he should be sleeping there instead of clinging to Steve like a beggar. Maybe it’s getting a little obvious. Maybe it’s getting a little dangerous now, with hope lingering distantly on the horizon. But for one more night, he lets himself tuck in close, breathe him in, his hand resting on Steve’s chest, feeling that steady heartbeat, that _miracle_.

* * *

He drags Steve out of the Tower of Isolation, to explore the new world together. Everything is _amazing_ , like Technicolor. Everything is _fast_ , whizzing by like life is a race; you have to look quickly, or you might miss something. He points out a woman with pink hair, a young man walking a dog that’s got more rolls than appendages. Steve eyes it all warily, like the woman might spit in his face and the dog may bite him.

How can he love the future when Steve wishes none of this ever happened? Wishes for the familiarity of their broken couch, scraping together dimes to make rent, an orange every Friday as a treat. Bucky misses it too, but this, _this?_  They’re here _together,_  after everything. But apparently Steve doesn’t see it that way.

So that night he says goodnight and goes up to his apartment alone, but doesn’t sleep. He lays in his big empty bed until midnight, when he’s too tired to be strong, and goes back downstairs to slip into bed with Steve. Steve sighs in his sleep and leans back against him. Bucky presses his forehead into the nape of Steve’s neck; _home_. 

He wakes with the dawn, twitchy like a fugitive, and slips away. The chances that Steve didn’t notice him in bed are slim, and he’s not quite sure how he’ll explain himself if it comes to that.

But Steve doesn’t mention it. So Bucky doesn’t either.

* * *

His phone pings. He hasn’t heard it do that before so he does some investigating and finds a… telegram? No, a message. A text message from Agent Romanov.

_Dinner tonight? Bring Rogers’ star-spangled ass._

He’s pulling on a leather jacket he’d found in the closet when Steve finds him.

“Natasha invited us out for dinner.”

“Are you sure she didn’t just invite you?” Steve says defensively. Like it’s 1939 and Bucky’s set Steve up a date who’s only going because her sister wants to go with Bucky. But it’s not 1939 and any dame worth her salt would drop Bucky like a hot potato for one Steven G. Rogers. How does he not see it? People want to be with him now. They want to look at him, want his attention. Bucky’s always been the only one who’s been able to keep it—aside from maybe Carter—but now Steve just wants to hide. Even from Bucky.

Normally he’d make a joke, “ _Aw, c’mon Stevie, don’t be like that_ ,” but he doesn’t particularly feel like joking. Steve caves and they trail after Natasha to a dimly-lit restaurant that’s so crowded it makes Bucky’s trigger hand shake. But Steve’s skin looks smooth and golden under the burnished lights, even if he is staring down at his hands in his lap like they can save him from this torture.

There’s a handsome man at the bar making eyes at Bucky, and even though he prefers blondes named Steve, he smiles back at him. It feels good, to know someone might want him.

When he turns back to the table, his eyes go to Steve automatically, like a reflex, and he finds Steve watching him, something devastating on his face. Regret, anger? Bucky shrugs it off—what else can he do?

Natasha has brought Darcy, who is an absolute delight—the kind of dame Bucky’d be sweeping off her feet if she weren’t twice the man he is. She’s got a foul mouth and a quick wit and Bucky adores her. Steve would too, she’s the kind of sharp mind he’d like to snark with, if he’d give her a chance.

Bucky goes to his own floor again that night. He wants to ask Steve what’s happening to them, why he can’t let go of the past, be here and now _with him_ , but the words won’t come. So he just says goodnight and watches Steve turn and walk away from him as the elevator doors close, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from burning.

* * *

Darcy calls him on video chat. She calls it FaceTime, which makes intuitive sense. She introduces him to YouTube and Amazon, and invites him out for drinks. He says he’d love to, and means it.

He’s getting ready in his bathroom when Steve comes up and finds him. He’s got a sketchbook and pencils in his arms, and Bucky wonders how mad Darcy would be if he called to cancel 20 minutes before he’s supposed to meet her.

“I’m going out for drinks with Darcy,” Bucky says.

Steve says, “Oh,” like Bucky’s just punched him in the gut.

“Do you want to come?” Bucky hopes against all odds that Steve will say yes, join him in the future, experience it together. Whisper under the sheets at night about all the crazy shit they’ve seen, brothers in arms, inseparable on the battlefield and off, two halves of one whole. But Steve just shakes his head.

“You drawin’ again?” Bucky tries again. Used to be, they couldn’t shut up when they were together, bullshitting about this or that, or discussing deeply the things important to them, to the world. But now Steve only nods.

Bucky tries to offer to sit for him like they used to do, but he’s suddenly tongue tied, too many words to say, all bottled inside wanting to get out at once, and he has to give up.

* * *

“Hey,” Darcy snaps amiably, “What’s with the long face?”

He pulls his focus back to his new friend and cocks an eyebrow. “My face is perfectly proportioned thank you very much.” She just rolls her eyes at him.

“Women can marry each other now,” he says, instead of answering her question, jerking his chin at the couple walking past, hand in hand. He’d play it off as a shocking thing for an old man like him, but Darcy’s eyeing him sharply.

“Men can too,” she says. Bucky can’t hold her brown eyes; he looks down at his drink.

She lets it drop and takes his mind off his worries for a few hours. He sees her home, despite her teasing about his charming good-old-boy ways, and then goes back to the Tower. He hits the button for his floor, but as the numbers climb up, he hits the button for Steve’s floor impulsively.

He toes his shoes off in the foyer. He hangs his jacket on the hook and creeps into the bedroom, feeling like a voyeur and a pervert and debauch and all the terrible things he thought about himself when he held Steve in his arms in Brooklyn, when he was small enough to tuck into Bucky’s chest like a little spoon. Bucky strips down to his boxers and slips under Steve’s blankets. He keeps to his own side of the bed for a moment, to make sure Steve won’t wake, then inches closer, until he’s pressed up against his back again, and drapes his arm over his waist;  _home_.

* * *

Bucky wakes up to Steve shifting and stirring. Dawn is breaking through the blinds, but Bucky doesn’t want to leave. So he doesn’t. When Steve wakes, he stills for a moment, then speaks.

“I had the strangest dream.” His voice rumbles into Bucky’s chest and Bucky closes his eyes to focus on the feeling.

“Yeah? What did you dream, Stevie?” he asks, trying for casual, though his breath is already coming faster. He can’t hide anymore. He won’t. Steve will know today, what’s really in his heart, for better or worse.

“I dreamt we slept for 70 years in the ice and when we woke up it was the future.”

That makes Bucky laugh, and it feels so good that he rolls with it, “And what was the future like?”

“It was…incredible. Terrifying. Overwhelming. You loved it,” he says sadly, and Bucky feels a sudden clarity.

Steve is sad. Of _course_ he is, everything they ever knew is gone. Maybe Bucky’s the fucked up one, who was able to let go of it all so quickly. He left Steve to drown in his grief while he moved on. _C’mon, the coffeemaker does frappuccinos, what’re you so glum about?_ What the _fuck_ had he been thinking?

Steve carries on over Bucky’s heart breaking, “But my favorite part was that no one had to hide who they loved. That was always hard on me,” he finishes quietly.

He?

He’s letting Bucky in, after Bucky left him behind, forgiving to a fault, the kindest man Bucky’s ever known. And what sort of a coward would Bucky be if he didn’t respond in kind?

So he says softly, to the back of Steve’s neck, “Me too.”

Steve turns under his arm, and when he looks into his blue eyes it’s all Bucky can do not to kiss him right then. The nerves win out though, because what if he’s reading it all wrong? But then Steve’s eyes drop to his lips and Bucky knows, the way he always knew when Steve was forming a shit-dumb idea in Europe, the way he knew Steve’s sicknesses in Brooklyn would never take him away for good, he _knows_.

So he leans in to kiss him. Steve sighs against his lips, and Bucky can be forgiven for pressing into him hard, kissing him deeply, for all the years he spent dreaming of it. He skims his hand down Steve’s body, this miracle that saved his life and brought them back together, and _god_ , what a body it is. Steve puts one of his big paws on Bucky’s face, and wraps a leg around his hips, slotting them together like puzzle pieces. Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth; _nothing_ has ever felt better than this.

They clutch at each other desperately, panting into the scant space between them. The bubbling happiness is about to spill out, and since the dam has broken and he can say it now without guilt, no secrets between them anymore, Bucky whispers, “I like the future."

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning into him again, like he just can’t get enough and goddamn if _that_ isn’t the best thing in the whole future— “Me, too.”

Bucky tastes Steve's tongue, the desire simmering hotly and rapidly gaining traction. He wants all of him at once, but enough coherence remains to murmur, “I’m so sorry Steve,” against his lips.

“For what?” he says as he pulls back, fear written across his face.

“I was awful. I thought if I was excited enough for both of us, everything would be ok.”

“Everything is ok,” Steve says, “now,” and he smiles, the smile Bucky hasn’t seen since 1945, even though it was only a few weeks ago, it’s been entirely too long. He leans in to taste it, because it’s the future, and he can.


End file.
